I should have known better

I was so down the following morning. Tandy is one of the 10 nicest women I have ever met. But like eight of the other nine, she wasn't interested in anything other than friendship (and I had to beg the other one, my ex, for weeks before she agreed to a date). A New Edition to an ever-growing list (gedditt??).

I emailed Tandy to apologise for my behaviour, saying that I had enjoyed her company so much in Hue, I was disappointed that things had not continued in the same vain. She eventually replied, wishing me happy travels. I was indignant. It seemed stupid that she would be sitting alone in her hotel room for the next few nights, while I would be sitting alone in a bar. She may have got an inkling that I fancied her, but I haven't acted in any way inappropriately.

The cavalry arrived in the form of the Kiwi girls, Bex and Mel, who had just turned up in Hoi An. They agreed to join me in a drowning-my-sorrows session (until the Antipodean witching hour of 22.00, of course). When they left the Britpop bar, their seats were pounced on by two stunning Danes in their early twenties. They tried to engage me in conversation, but I was more interested in watching Any Murray's Wimbledon quarter-final. When I say 'more interested', what I meant was that I was just being realistic. As I looked around the bar, all I could see was countless tall and tanned English lads, 20 years my junior. If I can't pull someone my age, who understands the nuances of my humour, what chance have I got with women who say 'pardon' why I tell them from England?

In the end, I sought salvation in the arms (figuratively, not literally) of a 15-stone Welsh journalist more plain than a bar of Bournville, who asked me for a light. Despite having little in common, we chatted for an hour, until she mentioned she was a huge rugby fan (I could see that for myself). I made my excuses and left.

Jim Diamond hit the nail on the head (although I didn't lie to anyone beautiful – I even told Tandy my real age). I was just stupid enough to think that someone without more stubble than me or any psychiatric issues, who was willing to pay her own way, could fancy me. Or even just enjoy a little holiday snog with someone she clearly really liked. Am I really asking too much?

It never happens to me

The morning after I had been out with Tandy, we were both catching the 08.00 bus to Hoi An (fate?). Unfortunately, we weren't on the same bus. But it wasn't a problem because I had taken her email address.

So I sent Tandy a message suggesting meeting at 19.00 in a particular bar. I was so excited all day. As the big moment approached, I put on my second-least-creased shirt and my lucky pants (the only semi-clean ones).

As I set off for the bar, I was 90 per cent confident of pulling. Only once in my life have I ever gone out with such a level of bravado before (in fact, a confidence factor of more than 10 per cent): to one of Nicola Evans' parties in the late-1980s - and I failed.

When I arrived at the venue, I was shocked to find it had shut down. Now unlike Hue, Hoi An has dozens of bars and clubs dotted all over the town. So the chance of us meeting had suddenly severely diminished. I wandered round in an increasing sense of desperation - and after 20 minutes bumped into Tandy.

She certainly hadn't made as much as an effort as the previous evening and I immediately felt that there was something wrong. Almost the first thing she said that she was so tired. We found a restaurant and sat down to order. Tandy opted for water. As deep and personal as the conversation had been the previous evening, tonight it was perfunctory and serious. Her lack of interest in being there rubbed off on me and rather than trying to win her round with my gift of the gab, I turned into a sulky schoolboy. At one stage, she asked why I was fed up. I just said that I had a lot on my mind.

We finished our meal, paid the bill and I walked her in the direction of her hotel. She said it was well out of my way and that she could do the last part on her own. I didn't even try to kiss her.

Feargal Sharkey, I know where you're coming from.

Tandy girl - you are my world

So there I was, in a bar on my first night in Hanoi. I was still shattered from the 31-hour journey and was quite happy sitting alone watching the world go by.

I had almost finished my beer and was contemplating going in search of something to eat, when a woman with long blonde hair walked in and sat opposite me. She was carrying a huge day-sack and was more glam than your average backpacker.

She experienced some language problems when she tried to order a drink. As I looked over, she gave me a beaming smile. I decided to order another beer. A few minutes later, we made eye contact again.

I wanted to go and sit with her. But I didn't want it to look as if I was on the pull (although I obviously was/am). A few minutes later, she came over and asked if she could join me. As I can't remember a woman ever having done this before, I was hardly going to say no.

Tandy was a 36-year-old from Adelaide, who was travelling around Thailand and Vietnam on her own. She was heading in the same direction as me, although she had slightly more time. We had a really interesting conversation that went beyond the usual travellers' gambits of 'where are you from/where are you going/where have you been?'. Two hours had soon passed, but to my disappointment, at 22.00 on the dot, she said she was going to bed (as most Antipodean girls seem to). We never swapped email addresses, but I was fairly confident that we would catch up with each other again.

Over the next couple of days, I found myself thinking about Tandy quite regularly (and I don't mean the eletrical retailer). Although not particularly my type, and there hadn't been the chemistry I'd had with the Doctor (see 23/9/08), for example, she was a really nice person. And unlike almost every single thitysomething I encounter, she had no obvious flaws (she was attractive, intelligent, fun, successful and had no baggage).

A week later, I had moved on to Hue. I was pretty sure that Tandy had arrived in town the previous evening, and as there were only two bars in town that travellers frequented, I was confident that I would bump into her. So I had a shave and put on the least-creased shirt in my duffle bag.

I walked into the first bar and there was a hot-looking (in every sense - the humidity here is unbearable) woman sitting by the pool table. I thought it was Tandy, but she looked so different, I couldn't be sure. As I went to walk out, she called my name.

We sat down and the conversation flowed as freely as the beers. Tandy looked absolutely stunning. We were joined briefly by a couple of Kiwi girls who I had been spending time with (and whose ears I had been bending about Tandy) and they agreed that she was lovely. They left us to it. By 22.00, we were both quite tiddly, and decided to head for some food. We found a restaurant where the only free table had chairs side by side, so we rearranged the furniture so that we could sit opposite each other.

Although there was no overt flirting, there was a little bit of 'accidental' touching. A waitress came over and asked if we were married. We put her straight, but she kept on about what a lovley couple we would make. Although it sounds a cringeworthy situation, it didn't embarrass either of us.

We walked home very closely. When we reached her hotel, I leaned forward to give Tandy a peck in the 'corridor of uncertainty' (about an inch from the corner of her mouth) and she swivelled her head and puckered up, so that our lips met. Perhaps I should have pushed it, but ever the gentleman, I knew that we potentially had another five days together. I walked back to my hotel very happy with the world.

Holiday romance?

If anyone is still reading this blog – and I’d be surprised if there is, as there isn’t a lot going on – I’m going to make a bold pronouncement and say that I am expecting a change of luck over the next couple of months.

‘Expecting’ might be a tad optimistic, but I’ve been ‘hoping’ for too long. And perhaps a more positive attitude will reap its rewards. I’m off on holiday to Indochina tomorrow for eight weeks. I’ll be spending three weeks travelling through Vietnam and Cambodia on my own, before joining 11 others for a four-week trip around China.

The two most amazing women I have ever met came into my life while I was on my travels: Jill in New Zealand (1993) and Mel on a flight back from Los Angeles (2001). I also met my last girlfriend in Kenya (2007) and someone very special in Costa Rica last year (see 8/8/08).

Group travel is always a bit of a gamble. After all, you could end up with 11 male members of a Japanese chess club. I’ve never been a big fan of organised trips, but I've found that as I get older, and most people travelling independently are 20 years my junior, I've become less sociable. I also increasingly prefer the peace of a cheap hotel, rather than a dorm where your drunken room-mates are staggering in at all hours of the night.

When I did an organised trip a couple of years ago in Africa, it started really well. There were lots of people around my age and it was great fun. Unfortunately, they all went back to their jobs after two weeks (proving my mum right, as she says that only students, retired people and crusty old hippies take holidays as long as I do - and I'm not looking to meet any of those), leaving me in the company of a bunch of 20-year-olds. Not a lot of fun, let me tell you.

I figure that out of my 11 companions, seven will be women (females are always more likely to travel in a group). Two of those will be in couples, while three will be two old or too young. Which leaves two. Surely one of those will be a professional, London-based, thirtysomething with short hair, a degree in banter and curves in all the right places. Hmmm....

The closest I’ve been to a woman this year was moon-stomping into one at The Specials gig – and I bet it was her who nicked my phone. This year has been a complete non-event as far as women are concerned. I haven’t had a single smile. I haven't flirted with anyone. It has been like winding the clock back 12 years, when women weren’t even on the periphery of my life. But back then I loved West Ham. Now I don’t.

I was packing my bag last night and found that all my condoms had expired 15 months ago. A friend advised to buy some new ones, as I don't want to catch anything. I told him that I am in no danger of catching bird flu - because birds run a mile when they see me. With my track record and the pigs that I have to make do with, I'm in far more danger of catching swine flu.

A nod's as good as a wink

My three-month subscription to Dating Direct ended at the weekend. In an attempt to make me waste another £45, the website embarked on its usual trick of promoting me to its female members in every possible way. But not only did it fail to entice me into prolonging my tenure on the site, but I would imagine that female members quit in their droves, after the indignity of having my profile emailed to them ‘as a good match’ or having to continually endure the sight of my profile on the homepage.

Of course, such a tactic garnered me far more ‘views’ (up from a couple a day to about 20), but none of these elicited a ‘wink’ or an email. That was until the penultimate day, when I received a wink from someone and an email from someone else. The woman who emailed me was a better bet than most of my previous correspondents, but her message was dull and made little sense.

The woman who winked, although not ostensibly my type, had a reasonable profile. So I sent her a message. She replied a couple of hours later, saying that she was really glad that I had emailed her. I explained that it was my last day on the site, so I gave her my Googlemail address. A few minutes later, a ‘chat’ request appeared on my laptop – from her. Unfortunately, I can’t reply to chat requests. So I emailed her to this effect, reiterating that she should drop me an email.

Five days later, I’m still waiting to hear. I know you will be thinking that I should resubscribe, but I’m loth to do that for several reasons. First, I didn’t intend to subscribe for the last thee moths. It’s just that Dating Direct has a sneaky way to make you think that you have cancelled when you haven’t (after several questions, you are asked whether you still want to cancel – but clicking on the ‘cancel’ button, cancels the cancellation process, rather than your subscription). Second, there is no one on the site that I want contact, who hasn’t already ignored me. Over the past three months, I have sent no emails and winked at nobody. Third, the woman in question has received more than 1,000 winks and is undoubtedly emailing other people. Fourth, she will lose interest before we meet as a result of misunderstanding my sarcasm. Five, I’m skint (see A Change for the Bettor for the sickening reason why).

I don’t know why she won’t send me an email. I can understand that she doesn’t want to reveal her identity so soon, but it takes two minutes to set up an account under a pseudonym (and most people on dating websites already have one). It’s not as if I gave her my Hotmail address.

And I haven’t heard a word from Susan Boyle.

Boyle prerogative

Remember me? You'll have to excuse my absence. It's not that I can't be bothered to update this blog. It's just that there is nothing to say. My love life is as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard, as empty as one of Gordon Brown's promises.

Not only has my social life plumbed new depths (my only night out in the past three weeks has been dinner with a female friend), but I am now 'working' from home (I am using the word in its loosest sense). And despite being logged on to Dating Direct pretty much 24/7 (which should create interest, as the most common way to search is to look at people 'currently online'), I have had no winks, no emails and only a single 'view' (she had no picture) in the past fortnight.

If things don't pick up soon, I'm going challenge Piers Morgan to a duel, with the winner getting to take out Susan Boyle, from Britain's Got Talent.

Mum's the word

I had only my second Saturday night out of the year a couple of weeks ago. The previous one had been on my own in a deserted village pub in rural Cornwall, in January. No wonder I’m single.

This time, the venue was a Chinese restaurant in deepest Essex for my cousin’s 30th birthday celebrations. I knew only a handful of the 30 or so people in the party and was consequently sat on a table with my parents, my sister-in-law, my cousin and her boyfriend, my aunt and uncle, and four of their friends (two couples). I was, as always , the only single person in the group over the age of 30.

The venue was packed with hen parties. Women must have outnumbered men by about four to one. Although the food was appalling and overpriced, the restaurant’s attraction was the fact that it had a dance floor, which belted out cheesy classics to the gaggle of underdressed and overtanned Essex girls.

I had rarely been anywhere like it – and certainly not for 15 years. All of the women were dressed up to the nines, with acres (literally, in some acres) of flesh haging out everywhere you looked. I thought back to my last big night out, New Year’s Eve, when the female friend I went out with turned up in jeans and trainers. One of my cousin’s friends was absolutely stunning. I felt like a kid in a sweet shop. But one without any money.

My aunt came over to ask me to dance, accompanied by one of my cousin’s single friends. I declined, on the basis that I was sober and had a sore leg (trying to train for a marathon from scratch in nine weeks is not advisable). But the friend was insistent. I looked at her bleached blonde hair, glowing tan and ample curves and was more than a little tempted. But then her grating accent, state of inebriation and the age gap brought me back to reality – and I held firm.

As she wandered off, my mum said: ‘She likes you.’ Thanks for the vote of confidence, mum, but it would probably have been a very different story if she had been sober.  

There is only one thing worse than trying to pulling someone 10 years your junior in front of your parents. And that is failing to pull someone 10 years your junior in front of your parents. With a wistful look at the dance floor, I got my coat.